Three Years Later
by Selecasharp
Summary: It’s 8:23pm on 14 May, 2022, and CC is late.
1. Chapter 1

**1.**

It's 8:23 pm, and CC is late. She's been late before, but as this is the first time he will have seen her since she left nearly a week ago, he feels his irritation is justified. He's had this day planned since the day she left, right down to making her favorite pizza recipe and serving it to her for her first dinner back. The recipe had finally been perfected to his satisfaction, and though he still wasn't that fond of pizza – even when he was making it – he knew she would be happy. He had been looking forward to seeing her taste it for days, to seeing her look up at him and smile at him in the way she generally only did when pizza was involved.

But she isn't here yet.

Even out in the great hall he can smell the pizza, and he's starting to think he can detect the crust getting burned. All that work, he thinks, stalking over to the window and looking out. Nothing. "Where is she?" he asks the room in general, but gets no response. Not that he had expected one, of course. No one has talked to him since CC left.

He turns away from the window. The pizza smell is stronger the farther away he gets, and he can just picture the crust turning brown and dry every moment she doesn't appear. "If she has the gall to complain about the pizza being too dry," he says to the dog, who is lying in the sitting room doorway watching him with big brown eyes, "then I am no longer responsible for my actions." Vincent merely flicks an ear in response, and he takes a few precious moments out of his pacing to kneel down and stroke the dog's head. He's rewarded with a lick.

It's 8:28 now. "Eight o'clock," he mutters to himself, getting back to his feet and returning to pacing. "She said eight o'clock." He considers checking the Book again to confirm it, but he knows he's right.

The pizza is definitely burning, he decides. He whirls and dashes to the kitchen to check on it. "It looks fine," he says to Vincent, who has followed him and is now wagging his tail expectantly. "And no, you can't have any." He resists the urge to slam the oven shut and turns to make the long trek back to the great hall.

Then he hears her voice.

"Alexander? Vincent?" A thump, and then, "Where are you two?"

He breaks into a run, and both he and Vincent race to see who will get back to the great hall first. Vincent wins.

CC is standing by the door, suitcases scattered around her, her black hair spilling around her shoulders in a disarray she never had before except during those few weeks she wasn't herself. She's petting Vincent and trying to take off her coat at the same time, and it's not working. She's chuckling, and Vincent is nearly wagging his tail off he's so excited, and then she looks up and sees him.

"Alexander," she says.

"Sofie," he returns.

He's torn between wanting to hug her and wanting to yell at her, but she takes the decision from him when she steps forward and wraps her arms around his waist, letting her head fall to his shoulder. "You're late," he can't resist saying to her as he hugs her back. She's warm, and her hair tickles his hands as he holds her. He can feel her fingers pressing into his back, and he closes his eyes. It's always better when she's home.

"I know," she says, her voice muffled by his shirt. "I can't really explain why."

"Do you ever?"

She laughs a little and squeezes him. He squeezes back. "I missed you," she says. "Even if I did have Cheese-kun with me. And I am sorry I'm late."

"I know. I'll make you pay for it later," he says, resisting the urge to check the time again and then drag her to the dining room. It can wait another minute when it's already been thirty-six. She's so warm. "Or I will once I get over just being happy you're back."

She sighs. "Speaking of that, you're not going to like what I have to tell you."

He pulls back to look at her face, eyebrows raised. "Has someone—"

"It's not that," she says, cutting him off. "Don't worry. You're safe, Alexander." She smiles a little at this, then continues, "I have to leave tomorrow."

He lets go of her entirely. "What?"

"I have to leave tomorrow," she repeats, looking up at him with that solemn expression she uses when she knows she's going to piss him off. Seeing it pisses him off. "I know I told you I'd be back for at least a few weeks, but something's come up."

He turns his back to her and starts toward the kitchen. "What could possibly be that important, Sofie? If we're not in danger of being discovered—"

"I can't tell you what it's about," she says, as he had known she would. He has no idea what she does with the time she's away, but he can't fathom why it requires her to be gone so much, and so erratically. "But we're both safe," she says. "It doesn't have to do with that. I might be able to tell you more, later."

"Forget it," he says over his shoulder. "It's almost 8:40. We need to eat. The food's been ready for awhile." Vincent hears the magic word and lets out a happy whine, prancing ahead of him and wagging his tail happily. Behind him, he hears CC sigh. But she follows him.

*****

The crust is dry. CC doesn't seem to mind, as she's devouring the pizza with as much enthusiasm as she ever shows. Even he has to admit that the only problem is with the very edges of the crust, which Vincent is more than happy to help with the disposal of. Currently the dog is sitting next to him with his head in his lap, looking mournfully at him as if trying to convince him that he is starving to death, despite the generous amount of pizza crust he's already consumed. "I'm not buying it," he says to Vincent, who whines a little and licks his arm.

"Well, what do you expect?" CC asks around a mouthful of cheese. "You keep feeding him all your crusts, of course he's going to act like that."

"What else am I supposed to do with them?" he counters, waving one at her. "It's inedible."

She snorts and deliberately takes a bite of her crust. "You could always feed them to the birds," she suggests thickly.

"I'm not encouraging them," he mutters, slipping the crust he had been using to gesture to Vincent, who gobbles it down in one gulp and happily starts thumping his tail against the floor. He scratches the dog's ears.

"At least tell me that you got him trained to come when he's called," CC says, watching them.

He's insulted at her lack of faith. "Of course," he says. "What else did I have to do? Vincent not only comes when you call now, but he can sit, stay, beg, speak—" at this Vincent lets out a happy bark, and he feeds him a bit of pepperoni— "roll over, fetch, play dead, shake hands, heel, and balance objects on his nose."

"I see the book on dog training was a good buy," she says dryly. "Did you spend all week on Vincent's training, or did you remember to do anything else?"

"I finished the dress you wanted, if that's what you're really asking," he says, feeding the last of his crusts to Vincent and gratefully serving himself some salad. CC loves pizza beyond all reason, but he can only take it for so long. At least she doesn't insist on it for every meal anymore, he reflects.

She gives him a smile at that. "I'd love to take it with me, if it fits. May I try it on after dinner?" She pauses, and he wonders if something is showing on his face. He used to be so good at hiding everything, but after so many years with no one but her (and, recently, Vincent), she seems to have no trouble reading him now. When she speaks again, her voice has taken on the guarded quality she uses when she knows he's angry. "Or does that interfere with something you have scheduled for tonight?"

"You tell me what's happening tonight," he says without looking at her.

She sighs. "I do have to leave early. I'll have to pack, and try to get some sleep before leaving. But I'll have time to try it on, especially if I want to take it with me. And you?"

He flips open the Book, which as always is within reach of his right hand, and finds today. "Let me see," he says, pretending to run his finger down the blocks of time. "I might have time at— Wait, no, everything I planned for the next three weeks is _completely invalidated_." He slams the Book shut.

"Alexander," she starts, but he shakes his head and rises to his feet. Vincent lets out a surprised bark and scrambles back from him. He gives the dog an absent pat on the head. It's not Vincent's fault, after all.

"Alex—" she starts.

"I need to clean up," he cuts her off. It's even true; it's 9:01 now. He picks up his plate, still heaped with salad, and starts around the table toward her. He doesn't care if she's finished or not.

"Alexander," she says again, and grabs his free hand. "Listen to me. Sit down." She tugs, gently but firmly, on his hand, and to her obvious surprise he complies, sitting in the chair next to her. He puts his plate down on the table and crosses his arms.

She looks solemn. "When I get back," she begins, picking up her fork and handing it to him, "I will tell you what the trip is about, I promise, and you'll understand why I didn't tell you now."

"Will I understand why you had to go now?" he asks, knowing he sounds bitter but not caring. Why bother anymore, anyway? The only person he ever sees longer than a moment is her. "Will I understand why you couldn't stay as long as you said you would and then go do whatever it is?"

She nods. "You'll understand why it has to be now." She gives the fork in his hand a pointed look, and grudgingly he spears some lettuce and raises it to his lips. "It's very—" she begins, then frowns at him. He forks up another mouthful. Not speaking, she watches the fork move back and forth between the plate and his mouth. She hates it when he won't finish meals, which may have had something to do with her finally allowing him to cook dishes other than pizza for her. He resists the urge to make a face at her and eats faster.

She waits until he's finished the whole plate, then says, "It's so important that I almost went directly there without coming home at all in between. But it turned out—" She cuts herself off with a shake of the head. "Would you have preferred that?" she asks him instead. "Would you rather I have just not told you at all?"

He doesn't bother answering.

"Do you trust me?" she asks then.

"Do I have a choice?" he asks.

She reaches out, touches his hair. "You always had a choice," she tells him, something in her voice that he can't identify. He closes his eyes, letting her run her fingers through his hair. Her other hand touches his cheek, then falls away. "I'll make it up to you," she says softly.

He opens his eyes. "It's 9:08," he tells her. "You can make it up to me by helping me clean up."

She smiles.

*****

It's just after two in the morning when CC knocks on his door. Vincent doesn't move from his place next to the bed, but his ears perk up. "Alexander?" she calls, and he can hear her putting her suitcase down. He considers pretending he's asleep, even though he knows she knows how little sleep he gets.

She hasn't tried to talk to him since he left to take Vincent out, two hours and seven minutes ago. He's heard her moving around in her room, presumably packing, and though he's wanted to talk to her he's stayed in here, working in the Book and waiting for her to approach him. This is her fault, after all.

She knocks again. "I can see the light, Alexander. I know you're awake. Let me say good-bye."

He gets up and opens the door. "I was supposed to go with you to town the day after tomorrow," he greets her, holding up the Book. "I have four commissions done, and if I don't mail them out soon they'll be late. When are you going to be back?"

She shakes her head. "I wish I knew. Probably about a week. Possibly two. It depends." She looks as if she would like to elaborate, but doesn't. Of course.

He turns away from her and stalks back over to his desk. "Do you remember that the Eintracht game is next week?" he asks without looking at her. "Are you going to miss that too?"

She doesn't answer.

"Weeks," he spits out, spinning around to face her again. "I've been planning to go that game for weeks. You encouraged me! You said that I should go out more now, that it's been long enough since—" He buries his face in his hands.

"Go," she says softly.

He lifts his head.

She's holding out a set of keys. "Go," she repeats. "Put those driving lessons I gave you to use. It's about time, isn't it?"

He stares at them. "But—" he starts, but she shakes them so they jangle.

"It's been three years," she says firmly, and he can tell already that he's going to lose this particular argument. Which he supposes means that, in a way, he wins. She steps forward, grabs his hand with her free one, and presses the keys into his palm. "You know what to do in public. You know where the post office is, and I'm sure you know exactly where the stadium is. You don't need me to come with you anymore." She turns his hand over and folds the fingers down. "You'll be fine. I know it."

He looks down at his hand. The keys seem to wink at him, and he holds up them to the light. His heart is thumping wildly, and not all of it is from nervousness. He wants to do this, he realizes, and the realization surprises him. He looks past the keys to her face, and she smiles at him.

He hugs her.

When he steps back, she's giving him her pizza smile, and he nearly laughs aloud. He should have known she would have an ulterior motive. "You just want me to give you the dress," he says.

"No," she says, very seriously, "what I want is for you to be happy." Her smile widens just a little. "But if you're offering to let me have it, I won't refuse."

"I still have to redo my schedule," he muses, as if he's considering it.

"But you won't have to miss nearly as much this way," she counters.

"I'll still miss you," he says, and her face softens.

"I know," she says, stepping forward and putting her hand on his shoulder. "But I'll be back as soon as I can, I promise. And you'll have Vincent to keep you company, at least." At the mention of his name, Vincent thumps his tail on the ground but otherwise doesn't move. He can't exactly blame him; before coming up to his room, he had taken Vincent on a walk of the grounds.

"And you'll explain when you get back?" he can't resist asking.

She nods and steps back. "I'll explain. You'll be careful, especially at that game?"

He imitates her nod. "I'll be careful."

"In that case," she says, holding out her hand, "hand it over."

Shaking his head to himself, he goes over to the closet, where he hangs all the finished products. Her dress is easy to find; it's in red, black, and white, colors he knows she loves, with a fitted bodice and flowing lines. With a flourish he pulls it off the hanger and holds it out to her. "Well? Does it meet with your approval?"

Her face lights up. It really is as if he's offering her pizza, he thinks, and he can't help but smile. She reaches out and takes it carefully from him, cradling it in her arms. "It's beautiful," she says, looking up at him, her eyes bright. "Thank you."

"Thank me by letting me know exactly when you'll be back as soon as you know," he says, tapping the cover of the Book. "I want a little more warning next time."

She shakes her head and presses her cheek to the fabric. "You really do need to get out more," she murmurs. She takes another moment to stroke the fabric, and then she's turning towards the door and the suitcase that sits in the hall. "I'm taking the BMW," she says to him as she steps out of his room. She kneels and carefully stows the dress in her bag.

"So these are the keys to the Mercedes?" he asks, holding them up.

She nods and stands up. "Promise me you'll be careful," she says.

He can't help but laugh at that. "I'm nothing but careful, Sofie."

Her eyes flicker at this, and she steps back into the room and holds out her hands. Blinking, he takes them. To his surprise she pulls him forward and kisses him on the cheek. "This is for you," she whispers to him, so quiet he doubts even Vincent can hear her.

"For me?" he repeats dumbly.

She nods and touches his cheek. "You'll see what I mean." For a moment her fingers linger, and then she turns away. He's still as he watches her lift the suitcase. Then she looks back at him, an inscrutable look in her eyes. For a moment they stare at each other. Then she touches her free fingers to her lips and says something he hasn't heard from her – from anyone – in three years.

"Good-bye—" she says, "—Lelouch."


	2. Chapter 2

**2.**

It's 9:33 am, and he sits under the large oak tree outside, his feet tucked under him and his hair still loose around his shoulders. He plans to leave precisely at ten; the long drive to Frankfort puts him at the post office just before eleven, when he and CC usually arrive. He's found through careful observation that it's the best time to avoid large crowds, though he knows that there is always a chance there will be a crowd anyway. There is always a chance. But he still hopes that this time will be quiet like the last four.

It's the first time CC won't be there with him.

Vincent is watching him as he talks, probably hoping for a treat. He has one in his pocket, but he plans to wait to give it until they reach Frankfort and he's sure Vincent won't get sick in the car. Vincent doesn't seem to notice it, though; his brown eyes are fixed on his face, and it's almost like the dog is listening to him. It makes it easier to practice.

"I'm doing well," he says to Vincent, who doesn't move except for the breeze stirring the hair around his ears, "and how goes it with you this week?" He has to sound like a native speaker, and he's found that talking to Vincent is the best way to practice. CC already sounds completely native and has since they arrived here, and besides, she's not always around. Vincent is.

He waits a moment, then says, "Sofie is back home," because he knows the postmaster will ask about CC, but then he pauses because he still hasn't decided what he'll say she's doing. He doesn't want to say she's sick, because then the postmaster will ask him more questions like how she is doing and what she has, and he doesn't want to have to invent that much information. He lies enough, he feels. But he doesn't want to act as if he doesn't know what she's doing either, because that will seem suspicious, and the last thing he needs is for an outsider to get suspicious of him.

"Sofie is," he starts, and considers. Vincent cocks his head to one side, as if surprised that he's gone silent, and he reaches out and rubs the dog's ears. He can feel the breeze lifting his hair off his neck and resolves to tie it back before he leaves. Alexander always has his hair back in public, away from his face and out of his eyes.

Overhead, the leaves rustle, and he looks up for a moment. Vincent licks his hand and then takes the opportunity to nose at his pocket. "Vincent!" he says, pushing the dog's nose away. Then he smiles.

"Sofie is back home having lunch with a friend," he says to the dog, who looks back up at him with his ears cocked. He pauses a moment, then says, "She'll come next time, she told me to tell you. Now, about the packages—"

Vincent makes a huffing noise, and he checks his watch. It's time for him to head back to the garage, if he plans to arrive at the post office on time. For a moment his heart pounds as he contemplates the drive by himself, but he's practiced that too, and he knows he can do it easily. It's less complicated than a Knightmare, after all.

"Good boy," he says to Vincent as he stands up. He doesn't need to practice the part about the packages, he reasons as he starts the walk back through the grounds, Vincent gamboling at his side. He has said so much about sending packages that he's fluent in it. He's ready.

**o**

He arrives precisely on time, and to his delight there is no one else in the post office. At the door he checks his reflection. His hair is still perfectly tied back, but the glasses he wears in public are slightly crooked. He lifts his free hand, the one holding Vincent's leash, and adjusts them, blinking his now-amber eyes as he does so. The contacts feel strange to him, but they always do, and it's not painful so he tries not to worry. They're essential if he's to ever leave the castle at all.

Through the glass he can see the postman at the counter, absorbed in the small television on the counter. He takes a deep breath. Then he pushes the door open.

"Good day, Herr Klose!" he calls as he enters, and the postmaster looks up from the screen. Herr Klose's face breaks into a smile at the sight of him, and he reaches out to twiddle the volume knob on the television.

"Alexander Schweinsteiger!" the postman says cheerily. "And Vincent too, I see. Haven't seen you two since—" he makes a show of checking the clock "—exactly this time last week. And how are you today?"

"I'm doing well," he replies, "and how goes it with you this week?" Every word comes out perfectly. Next to him, Vincent cocks his head to the side and pants. He touches the top of the dog's head, and Vincent licks his hand.

"Not bad, not bad," Herr Klose says genially. Then he raises his eyebrows. "And where is your lovely sister today?" The postmaster always comments on CC's loveliness in some way; it's as if the man loves routine as much as he does. He can't say he blames him.

"Sofie is at home having lunch with a friend," he replies promptly, and can't help but wondering just which friend CC would actually agree to lunch with. But he makes himself stop, because he'll only start thinking about everyone they used to know again if he doesn't, and even after three years it still hurts to remember some of them.

He catches his breath and remembers his next line. "She told me to tell you that she'll come next time." He heaves his packages onto the counter and adjusts his glasses again. The lenses are catching the overhead light, just a little. Next to him, Vincent lets out a huff and sits down, tongue lolling.

"Really?" Herr Klose says as he begins the process of sorting through the packages. "What sort of friend?" His tone becomes suggestive. "A male friend, perhaps?"

He fights down the image of green eyes and tousled dark hair, and instead replies, "No, a girl we went to school with."

Herr Klose nods at that. "Well, tell Sofie I missed her," he says as he scans one of the packages. "My week just isn't as bright without a glimpse of her pretty face. Or her pretty body."

He lets himself pull a slight face at that, and says, "Do I have to repeat that part, Herr Klose?"

The man lets out rumble of laughter. "Trust me, Alexander, if you weren't her brother you'd understand."

He doesn't understand anyway. CC is beautiful, yes, but her beauty is ethereal to him, something almost separate from her, a gauzy layer she wears over herself almost absently. When he looks at her, he doesn't see beauty. He sees CC.

They're almost done, and he has just pulled out his wallet to pay for the shipping, when Herr Klose leans over the counter and says to him, voice low, "Did you hear the news about Zero?"

It's as if his heart has stopped. "There is news about Zero?" he manages to get out in a perfectly level, even curious, tone. But it's hard for him to breathe, and one thought after another chases their way through his head, almost on top of each other. _Is he hurt? Is he being held prisoner? Is he missing? Is he dead? _The image comes back, stronger than before, and he finds that his hands are gripping the counter so hard his knuckles are white.

It's an eternity before Herr Klose answers. "It was just announced," the man rumbles, nodding to the television. "Ambassador Lamperouge says he's gone into retirement."

"_Retirement_?" he bleats before he can stop himself, but the shock he knows is evident in his tone apparently doesn't strike the postman as odd. But Vincent can tell; he feels the dog's nose pressing against his leg, and he can hear a soft whimper. Vincent hates it when he gets like this, and he usually tries to calm down if Vincent starts acting like this. But he can't. Not yet.

"Strange, isn't it?" Herr Klose says. "I thought he would stay by her side until the end. But I suppose, after everything he's done to help her and Japan – and after what he did to that monster of an emperor—" The man's face twists with dislike, and it's all he can do not to step back. "He deserves to rest," Herr Klose concludes.

"But retirement," he says again, trying his hardest to just sound contemplative, but it's even more difficult than sounding just curious was. Vincent isn't fooled; he's still whimpering, softly, and he wants to stop it but he still can't. His head is reeling, and he can still barely breathe, because he knows what it means that Zero is putting down his mask, and it's not so the man behind it can get some rest.

"It wouldn't be that hard for him, would it?" Herr Klose says speculatively. "No one ever knew who he was, after all. He can just go back to being whoever that is full-time now."

Finally, he manages to let go of the counter and drop a hand to his side. Vincent immediately pushes his nose into it, and he carefully moves his hand to the fur on Vincent's head and strokes. The whimpering ceases. He manages to take a breath, and lets his fingers rub the soft hair on Vincent's ears. "I suppose," he manages. "It seems strange, though."

"It is," Herr Klose agrees, and for a moment the other man's eyes seem to look past him, past Alexander, and for a second he thinks that his thoughts must be written on his face plain as day for even the postmaster to see. His heart stops again.

But Herr Klose just holds out a hand as if nothing is different. "See you next week, Alexander," the postman says, eyes already sliding back to the television. He's careful not to look, because he can hear a little of the tinny voices emanating from it, and he's almost sure that if he looks he'll see Nunnally.

In a daze, he shakes the man's hand, then turns to leave, hands empty. "Good-bye, Herr Klose," he adds after a second. "Come, Vincent." The dog bounds to the door, wagging his tail as he waits for him to open it. He does so, barely noticing what he's doing, already fishing in his pocket.

Behind him, the postmaster calls after him, "Make sure Sofie comes next time!" It's what he would say if everything were still the same. It's what Herr Klose would say to Alexander Schweinsteiger, who has lived here all his life, and has a pretty sister named Sofie, and whose best friend is his dog.

But he hasn't lived here all his life, his sister doesn't even know he's alive, and his best friend has apparently taken it into his head to retire from the only identity he had left to him. He knows there can only be one reason why, and it's the reason he can barely breathe as he practically runs back to the car, Vincent bounding at his heels. It's amazing how much one moment can change everything, he thinks, but then he knows that better than anyone.

He's already dialing as he opens the door.

**o**

The number he's calling is the one CC gave him in case of emergencies, followed up by a long – for CC – lecture on what, exactly, constituted an emergency, and what she would do to him if he called this number when it wasn't one. He hasn't used this number yet, but he's fairly sure that this counts.

He tries to breathe as he listens to the phone ring – once, twice – the silence in between each seeming to last an absolute eternity. It rings once more before he hears a click, and then CC's lazy voice says, "Isn't it time for you to be at the post office?"

"Did you know?" he demands.

There's a beat of silence, and then she says, "I know a lot of things, Alexander, so you're going to have to be more specific."

"CC," he spits at her, and it's the first time in three years. She doesn't answer, but her silence is palpable, and he knows he's shocked her. Good, he thinks savagely. He's got her attention now. "Did you know that Zero was retiring?"

"That?" she drawls, maddeningly calm now. "That's old news, brother mine. He retired at least two, three days ago now."

Days ago. His head whirls, and it's as if something has grabbed hold of his chest and started squeezing. He might already be too late.

In the backseat, Vincent starts whimpering again, and he feels the cold press of the dog's nose on the hand holding the phone. He closes his eyes. Then he snarls at her, "You knew?" It's like he's ricocheting between rage and terror faster than he can breathe. But rage is easier, and he grips at it, trying to use it to shield himself from the terror until he can think properly again.

CC lets out a breath, then says, "I knew."

It's all he can do not to put his fist through the windshield. "Is this why?" he demands. "Is this why you blocked the news?"

"I blocked your access to the news because you did nothing else but watch it for _six months_," she replies, and he can hear just a hint of anger in her voice now. "And if you were thinking right now, you'd remember that I am not psychic. I didn't block the news for you _two years ago_ because I somehow knew Suzaku would retire _this week_."

Hearing that name is another blow to the chest, and he deflates. "But if you knew—" he starts, but she cuts him off.

"It's not what you're thinking."

"And what am I thinking?"

"That he's going to kill himself now," she says, so matter-of-factly he wants to reach through the phone and strangle her. "But he isn't. At least not right away."

"Is that meant to be comforting?" he can't resist muttering, but he's listening now, with all his being.

"It is, in fact," she says. "He has a new identity now, Alexander."

The grip on his chest loosens, ever so slightly. "A new identity?"

"A new name, everything," CC says. "She got it for him. Did you really think Nunnally never figured out who Zero was? He's barely left her side for the last three years."

"She knows?" he repeats faintly, and with that the anger's gone, and he can breathe. His heart's still beating fast, fear still not quite believing that there's nothing to worry about, but he can handle this. He can.

"Of course," CC says.

He falls silent a moment, and Vincent sticks his nose in his ear. He yelps and pushes the dog away, but Vincent lunges forward again and licks his face frantically, tail going like a windmill in a storm. He twists then, reaches out and rubs the dog's head, whispering, "Shhhh." Vincent finally drops into a sitting position on the back seat and just watches him, brown eyes almost mournful.

"Shhhh?" CC asks.

"Vincent," he says by way of explanation. For a moment, then, he remembers Vincent's namesake, and the fear momentarily swells over him again. "CC," he says, and it's the second time now. "I have to find him."

"You can't," she says simply.

"But—"

"Go home," she tells him, and her tone brooks no argument. "You must be in Frankfort, right? Go home and wait. I'll tell you everything when I get back."

"But Suzaku," he starts, but he can't get his lips to form the next word. Instead he lets them trace the name again, slowly. Suzaku. He hasn't said that one in three years either.

"Think about it. I knew when he retired. I knew he had a new identity. You think I don't know where he is now?"

"You know where he is?" he whispers, and hopes he can hear her response over the sound of his heart beating in his ears.

"I know he's alive," she replies. "Trust me. You know you can't go anywhere, and you have no idea where he could be now anyway. Besides," her voice drops, "he doesn't know about you."

He lets his head fall. She's right; Suzaku doesn't know. He'd been afraid to tell him, in case it hadn't worked. He hadn't wanted to hurt Suzaku more than he already had, and letting him think he wouldn't die only to have it backfire was worse than the other way around.

"Go home and wait," CC says, and he manages to lift his head again. "Try to catch up on your schedule. I'll tell you everything – and that includes about Suzaku – when I get back."

"When?" he whispers.

"Check the Book, brother mine," she says, and the playful note is back in her voice. He knows she's doing it to calm him down, but it's working anyway. It's like it usually is, again. He reaches out, touches the Book. It's still where he left it, on the passenger-side seat.

"One week from today, 8:00 pm, Sofie arrives home," he whispers.

"And today?"

"12:30 pm, arrive back at the castle. 12:45 pm, make lunch. 2:00 pm, take Vincent out." With every word he feels the tension lessening. It's not gone, but then it won't be, not until she's home again. "You'll call me if something happens to him?"

"I promise."

"All right," he says. He looks at the dashboard clock. 11:47 am. He'll be late getting back, but not by much. About fifteen minutes. He can cut fifteen minutes from lunch. "It's 11:48," he tells her. The drive is an hour.

"Better get going then," she says softly, and hangs up.


	3. Chapter 3

**3.**

It's 5:00 pm, and he's supposed to be logging onto the computer now to play in an online chess tournament. But instead he's got the Book open in his lap, a pen in his hand, and he's carefully drawing a line through the block that says, _5:00 pm – Play online chess_.

His eyes flicker to the television against the wall. He knows CC put the block on for a reason, and he's let it stand for the last three years because he knows she was right to do it. Even now he can barely remember the first six months he was here; the time is lost in a swirl of impressions, of himself barely moving as he watches flickering images of everything the world has gained set against everything he's lost.

He takes a deep breath, and next to his feet Vincent stirs and licks his ankle. Shifting the Book, he drops his free hand down and presses it to the top of Vincent's head. Vincent licks his hand too, and his hesitation vanishes. He steadies the pen.

Times change, he tells himself, and writes, under the crossed out words, _Disable block on television. Watch news._

It's harder to bypass the block than he thought it would be, but he still has it gone within ten minutes. Vincent watches him the whole time, still by the couch, and when he's done he fishes in his pocket and tosses the dog a treat. Vincent snaps it up happily and thumps his tail against the ground a few times.

He doesn't get up from his position kneeling in front of the television; instead he watches Vincent lick his chops and tries to keep his hands from shaking. The television's on, but it's on a nothing channel, pointless laughs echoing from the speakers as the characters onscreen babble at each other in rapid-fire German he can't quite catch. He reaches out, towards the screen, and remembers doing this before, reaching for his sister as she talked about freedom and the end of tyranny, and his hand colliding with the screen instead of brushing her face. But it's different now, he tells himself firmly, and changes the channel.

The news anchor is talking slower, enunciating carefully, and he can follow this German. He sits back on his heels a minute, and when he realizes it's the weather report he gets up and moves to the couch. Vincent licks his ankle again as soon as he's in reach, and to his surprise he laughs out loud. "Up," he says to the dog, patting the couch next to him. Vincent gives him a big doggy grin and jumps up next to him.

He watches the news with Vincent's head in his lap, his hand idly stroking the dog's ears as he concentrates on understanding every word spoken. It's local news at first, weather and then sports, which he watches with some anticipation for the Eintracht football score; a win, he notes, pleased despite the sick roil of anticipation. The anchor changes, and the new one recites national news. Rebuilding efforts, a fire in München, and then a still of Nunnally flashes on the screen, and he sits up straight.

"Ambassador Lamperouge has prepared a statement in response to several groups demanding that she release the true identity of the man known as Zero," the newscaster is saying. He barely has time to process this before Nunnally fills the screen entirely. She's sitting, her hands still on the podium in front of her but her chest rising and falling as she breathes. Her eyes are solemn, her lashes casting shadows on her skin, and it's still a shock to see them open, the gentle violet so like his own true color and yet so different. She looks beautiful, soft, but determined; he can see the steel core of strength in the way she's holding herself. She's not giving in. He knows it even before she starts to speak.

Her lips move, and he finds himself leaning forward, straining to hear her voice over the woman speaking the German translation of what she's saying. It should be difficult but it's not. He's been attuned to his little sister's voice all his life. Three years of not hearing it hasn't made a difference at all.

She's talking in Japanese. It's fitting, considering that she's the Ambassador to the new-and-old nation. "After everything Zero has done," he can make out, "he deserves to be allowed to retire in peace. This is a man who sacrificed everything, including his identity, to help countless others. This is a man who risked more than his own life to ensure freedom. Revealing his identity now would do nothing but ensure that he cannot experience the freedom he nearly died thousands of times over to secure."

She pauses, letting her words sink in, and he drinks her in.

"Even if I knew without a doubt who he was before," Nunnally says finally, eyes steady and no trace of guile in her expression, "I have no right to take away all the rest of the years remaining to him without his permission. I will always be grateful to him for his help rebuilding this nation. We owe him a debt. We are not owed his name."

She bows her head, clasps her hands, and he can tell just by that that CC wasn't lying. Nunnally did know that Suzaku was under that mask, knew that Suzaku was the one who killed her brother, and forgave him anyway. For a moment he wishes that he could see her again, just once, in person, but he knows he can't. Sofie is Alexander Schweinsteiger's sister, and the emperor is dead.

Nunnally disappears off the screen then, replaced with some so-called political expert already tearing apart the implication of her words and broader implication of Zero stepping down. He finally sits back, reminding himself to breathe, and strokes Vincent's ears again. The dog snuffles a bit, relaxing against his thigh, and he realizes that Vincent had tensed with him. He leans over and kisses the top of Vincent's head, rubbing his face against the fur for a moment, but he keeps his eyes on the television screen.

The experts finish arguing, too fast again for him to understand every word though he does get the gist, and then it goes into a sort of Zero retrospective; there are clips from interviews Zero has done over the last thee years, which were apparently few and far between as he can only count three different instances, easily told apart by the different ways Suzaku is holding himself in each one. He catches his breath during each and every clip, strains for every word spoken. They're all about reconstruction, of course, because Zero never answered personal questions, but all the clips show the moments when he is asked and refuses to answer.

Then interviews with everyone who's worked with Zero, and even if the faces he sees now don't affect him quite the way seeing Nunnally or Suzaku does, his heart still aches at the sight of them, a little older, a lot wiser. One is Kallen, solemn-faced but her hair curling upwards for all the world to see, and his lips tingle at the sight of her. She's wholeheartedly on Nunnally's side, voice strident in her answers, and he wonders for a moment if, somehow, she has figured it out too. The station then dedicates several minutes to a reaction from Japan's Prime Minister Ohgi, who delivers his statement _("It's Zero's decision if he chooses to reveal his identity, not Ambassador Lamperouge's_.") with much more eloquence than he used to display. There is even a retread of the video of the day Zero killed the monster emperor and set the world free.

He can't make himself look away.

It's Vincent who finally makes him. The dog is whining and pacing by the door, occasionally scratching at it and then looking at him with a desperate plea, and it shakes him out of the stupor he's been in for the last – he checks his watch – three hours and seven minutes. Vincent whines again, deep in his throat, and he shakes his own head, hard, and gets to his feet.

"Come on, boy," he says, voice rough with disuse, and takes Vincent out on his walk, fifty-three minutes late. Vincent rushes out and takes care of business the moment he hits the grass, and then prances gratefully back to his side, tongue lolling. He kneels, hugs the dog in silent apology. Vincent licks him.

When they get back inside he feeds them both, Vincent first and himself only a sandwich because he doesn't have time now to cook anything he had planned. He would skip dinner entirely to get himself back on schedule, but that would mean breaking his other promise to CC – to stop skipping meals – and he isn't ready to break both in one day. He's still done by the time he was supposed to be finishing with dinner, and it's with relief that he checks it off in the Book. CC was right. He can do this.

But before he heads upstairs to work on his latest commission, he goes back to the den and puts the news block back on.

It's 12:34 pm, two days before CC is scheduled to return, and he's getting ready to leave the castle completely alone for the first time in over three years. He has it all planned out, from the drive to the stadium to where he will park to what he plans to eat during the halftime and how much cash that will require he have. He's walked and fed Vincent and he knows from experience that Vincent won't need to be walked again for about six hours, which is roughly when he should be back. He's ready.

"Be good, boy," he tells the dog, kneeling down to give him one last hug. Vincent licks his chin and snuffles against his shoulder, tail going like a windmill. He slips him one last treat and then stands. It's hard, leaving without Vincent, but he does it, striding away quickly while the dog is still occupied with chewing. He lets the door shut softly behind him and leans against it a moment, breathing heavily.

His phone rings.

"I'm on my way," he answers before CC can even get the words out.

"Hello to you too, Alexander," she replies, voice warm with amusement, and he lets himself picture her for a moment, the planes of her face soft, her lips quirked into a smile. He hasn't heard from her in days, not since he called her and got an idea of just how much she doesn't tell him. It's both been easier and harder, not hearing her voice regularly. "I'm fine, and you?"

"I'm on my way," he repeats, crossing the grounds with quick strides over to the car.

"To the game, I presume?"

"Isn't that why you're calling? To make sure I'm actually going?"

"Right in one," she says softly. "And I'm glad you're going. But be careful all the same, brother mine."

"Aren't I always?" he replies, just as softly. There's a beat of silence, during which he turns the key in the ignition. The Mercedes roars to life and then purrs quietly, humming under his hands. He cradles the phone with his shoulder and asks her, "Are you still getting back in two days?" She warned him when she gave him her arrival time that she wasn't sure about it, and now that he has her on the phone again he wants to know if he'll have to rework the schedule for that day.

"I should," she says, sounding distracted now.

"Should?" he repeats.

She sighs, but he's got her full attention again. "I know it's a lot to ask, Alexander," she says, sounding almost weary, "but be flexible about it, all right? You'll understand later why I can't pinpoint an exact time." She makes a sound like she wants to say more, but thinks better of it.

"It's all for me," he says, repeating her words the last time he saw her. He's not sure if he believes it. "Even if it means I have to constantly change the Book."

She sighs. "Just don't plan dinner around me."

"I didn't," he says, even though it's not true. He can always rework that tonight. He glances down at the Book, closed on the passenger seat, and says, "Sofie, I need to get going if I'm going to get to the parking lot by 2:00 pm."

"All right, all right. I'll call you in two days and give you a firm arrival time. Is that acceptable, Alexander?"

He smiles at that, even though – or perhaps because – she can't see him. "Good-bye, Sofie," he says, putting the car in gear.

"Good-bye, Alexander," she returns. Then she asks, tone curious, "What did you do with my ticket?"

"I sold it," he replies, and hangs up.

**o**

It's 2:29 pm when he gets to his seat, a little earlier than anticipated, and so far everything's gone perfectly to plan. His hair is held back tightly; his contacts are firmly in place even though he's wearing sunglasses; his clothes are loose, an oversize Eintracht t-shirt deliberately matched with faded denim jeans. It's nothing like what he wears at the castle, but it's exactly like what Alexander Schweinsteiger wears in public.

The stadium is mostly full now, the fans early for the game – Eintracht Frankfurt versus Bayern München – and the exhilaration in the air is nearly palpable. The game starts at three, and he's alternately nervous and elated, afraid to be out where he might be recognized but thrilled to be part of this. He's followed the team for over two years now, and not only is he finally attending a game, but it's the final game of the season. If Eintracht doesn't win, they will be sent to the lower league. But if they do win, they stay in the top league. It's overwhelming, verging on terrifying, and yet he can't stop grinning from the sheer excitement around him.

Someone drops down next to him on the seats. "Hello!" a girl's voice sings out. "It's nice to meet you! I bought your other ticket from you." She thrusts a hand out at him, and he tears his eyes from the (still mostly empty) pitch to look at her. She's cute, upturned nose and curly dark hair, blue eyes crinkling into a smile as she looks him up and down, the same Eintracht t-shirt he has hanging huge off her small shoulders. He freezes for a second, apprehensive under her scrutiny, but then her smile widens a touch and she grabs his hands and pumps it up and down. She doesn't seem horrified, which means that she hasn't recognized him, and he allows himself to relax a fraction.

"Nice to meet you too," he says after she looks at him expectantly.

That seems to be what she was waiting for, because she's off the moment he shuts his mouth again. "I'm _so_ glad you sold me that ticket," she chirps, leaning forward so he can hear her over the crowd. "I was supposed to sit with my cousin but the idiot thought I wasn't coming because I had class and so he told his girlfriend s_he_ could come instead, but there was _no way_ I was missing this game! Class be damned, right?"

She grins, and he nods, a little bewildered, and manages to extract his hand from hers. She keeps talking. "But then I needed a ticket because the last time I missed the final game they _lost_. So I was prepared to pay, like, way more than the ticket price to get one as long as I could still come, but then I found your offer online and you were selling it for only a little more than face value. I'm amazed no one else bought it before me, really, considering the price. Thank you _so much_!" She's barely taking breaths between sentences, her words practically tumbling over each other in their rush to escape. He's amazed he's followed her this far.

She pauses then and looks at him again, and he realizes it's his turn to contribute. "It was a finder's fee," he says, and to his surprise she laughs delightedly. "And you're welcome."

"I'm Birgit," she tells him, grinning.

"Alexander," he replies.

"We have the same shirt!" she crows, poking him in the shoulder, and even though he's noticed already he acts surprised. She bounces in her seat and tells him what seems like every detail about her life, but she also asks him about his, and he tells her about chess and dancing and his sister Sofie and his dog Vincent. He even shows her the picture he has of the two of them in his wallet, CC, lips barely curved in a smile, kneeling on the grass under the oak tree next to a doggy-grinning Vincent, her arms wrapped around the dog's neck and her black hair falling around both of them like a curtain.

"Your sister's beautiful," Birgit remarks, studying CC and then glancing almost slyly up at him. "Must run in the family," she adds, a smile quirking her lips. He can't help but smile back, especially when the next words out of her mouth are about how adorable Vincent is.

He gets several pictures in return, Birgit's family (mother, father, two brothers, all with curly dark hair and blue eyes) and cousin (tall, fair-haired) and two cats (one black, one brown tabby) and best friend (short, blonde hair in braids). Before he knows it half an hour has flown by, and the game is beginning. Birgit squeals with excitement and clutches at his hand.

He lets her.

The first goal is scored only four minutes and twenty-three seconds in, by Bayern's famous Cristiano, and Birgit howls with displeasure and shouts a few choice words at the team as a whole and at Cristiano in particular. He files them away for later use. The rest of the first half flies by in a blur, neither team scoring though not through any lack of trying. Birgit doesn't let go of his hand except when she's on her feet shouting, and it's distracting him, but not enough to keep him from watching the game with his usual precision, identifying strategies tried by both teams and evaluating why they did or did not work as they happen.

The first half ends, and Birgit drops back down into her seat, breathing hard. "I can't believe this!" she fumes. "1-0, and we're _losing_?"

"Blame Müller," he says, shaking the cramps out of the hand she's been clutching, and when she gives him a horrified look he clarifies that Eintracht's goalkeeper should have been able to prevent the goal made, and details exactly why. The more he talks the higher her eyebrows get, and when he finally winds down to a stuttering halt she grabs at both his hands and squeezes them. He tries not to wince.

"Tell me _everything_ you noticed about this half," she demands, and he does.

They spend the rest of the break dissecting the plays in the first half and debating Eintracht's chances to pull off a win in the second. Birgit's staunchly supportive, insisting that this is the year they can turn it around, and while he's cautiously optimistic – it's certainly possible – he's also got a more realistic view of the way this game could end. She won't hear it, even going so far as to cover her ears and sing when he tries to tell her to prepare for a possible disappointment. But when he sighs in frustration she drops her hands and giggles, shoulder-checking him and then leaning against him.

He lets her do that too.

The beginning of the second half takes him almost by surprise; he's been so focused on talking and analyzing with Birgit he had lost track of time. She fumbles for his hand. He lets her take the other one, and they focus on the pitch.

At minute sixty-seven and forty-two seconds, Behringer of Eintracht Frankfurt scores.

Birgit leaps to her feet, whooping and cheering, and he's pulled up with her. "I knew it!" she's yelling over the sound of the crowd exploding around them. "Didn't I tell you? We're going to win this!" Her enthusiasm is infectious, and he finds himself cheering along with her, which earns him a whoop and a radiant grin before he pulls her back down into their seats.

It's brutal after that; Eintracht almost makes another goal when player 23, Metzelder, goes for a goal that hits the post and ricochets off in the wrong direction at minute eighty-six, with only four minutes left. Birgit erupts into a tirade against the current Bayern goalkeeper, Bartusiak, as if it's somehow all his fault, but she's stopped when Bayern manages to get down the pitch to try for their own second goal again at minute eighty-nine. She squeezes his hand so hard he's worried he won't ever regain the feeling, but Müller saves it this time, and the crowd erupts in simultaneous cheers and boos.

Birgit slumps back, arm thrown over her eyes, as the clock ticks towards ninety minutes with the score tied 1-1. "I don't know if my heart can stand this," she says, her voice a little hoarse.

"It's not over yet," he tells her.

For the last few seconds before ninety Birgit alternately holds and drops his hand; then the sign meaning four minutes of stoppage is shown by the fourth official. The crowd stirs. "Four more minutes!" Birgit squeals, and throws her arms around his neck. He nods, heart pounding in his ears as he realizes that it's almost over, and that he's about to witness a spectacular win and a resounding defeat. He just hopes the former goes to Eintracht.

For nearly three minutes he and Birgit watch in dead silence. She's let go of him and has both her hands in her lap, fingers laced together so tightly her knuckles are turning white. He's more outwardly composed, his own hands resting easily on his knees, but inside he feels wound tight as a spring, and he's barely breathing as he watches the figures on the pitch, tracking every movement of the ball as the teams fight for supremacy.

At exactly minute ninety-three and thirteen seconds, Eintracht Frankfurt goalkeeper Benjamin Müller darts up the pitch and goes for a corner kick. At ninety-three minutes and fifteen seconds, Bayern München goalkeeper Piotr Bartusiak tries and fails to block Müller's header. At ninety-three and sixteen seconds, Birgit leaps to her feet a split second before the goal is called and screams with joy.

A second later, he joins her.

The last minute of game time is nothing. Bayern tries a desperation kick down the pitch, but he knows even before Cristiano's foot connects with the ball that it's not going to work. Müller, flushed with victory, easily clears it out, and at that the game ends. Eintracht Frankfurt stays in the Bundesliga.

The referee blows the final whistle, and Birgit shrieks once and then collapses back against him. He scrambles frantically and manages to catch her and lower her to the seats before she hits the ground. He starts to check her vitals but she draws a sudden breath and sits up and then throws her arms around his neck. "They won!" she squeals, and her voice is completely hoarse now.

"Did you just black out?" he asks her, stupidly, and she ducks her head a little.

"Maybe a little," she admits, and he finds himself laughing. She hugs him again and then gets back to her feet, and the next few minutes are a blur, laughing and shouting and dancing as, on the pitch, the Eintracht Frankfurt players celebrate even as they generously thank Bayern München for a good game while exchanging shirts. More people touch him in those few minutes – friendly handshakes, slaps on the back, jostling elbows – than have touched him his whole life. Part of him wants it to never end, but a part of him also wants to escape, and the longer it goes on the stronger the second part becomes.

After awhile, though, the crowd begins to thin, and Birgit takes his hand and leads him from the stadium, expertly weaving her way through the remaining pockets of crowd until they reach they parking lot. She lets go of him then, turning to look up at his face, and her smile is softer now, closer to the one CC gives him than the gleeful one she's had all game. "Here," she says, voice rough, and thrusts a piece of paper at him.

He looks at her with questions in his eyes.

She folds the paper into his hand and gives him another hug. "It's my email and my phone number in case you're terrified of phones like Ilse is. She won't call anyone she doesn't know." She coughs a little then and falls silent.

"Warm tea with honey," he tells her, and she nods a little and smiles. He looks away, down at his watch, and starts. "I have to go," he tells her. "It's an hour back, and my dog will need to be let out as soon as I get back."

She nods again, understanding, and her curls bounce around her face. She taps the paper in his hand. "Keep in touch," she whispers, and kisses him.

**o**

It's nearly midnight, and he's sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the fireplace, watching the flames crackle behind the protective screen. Vincent is sprawled out next to him, fast asleep, his legs twitching occasionally as he chases dreams. One hand rests on the dog's flank, idly stroking the fur. The other holds the piece of paper Birgit gave him.

Next to him, Vincent lets out a soft huff of air, and he looks away from the fire to see that the dog hasn't otherwise stirred. He looks peaceful, he decides, watching Vincent's chest slowly rise and fall. It's as if nothing went wrong today. It's as if he hadn't been late getting home from the game, and Vincent hadn't been nearly about to burst when he finally opened the front doors to let him out. It's as if he hadn't also been late getting Vincent his dinner. It's as if he hadn't thrown off the rest of the day's schedule by nearly an hour and had to rework more than just the day of CC's arrival in the Book.

It's as if he hadn't also broken his other promise to CC.

He looks back at the fire. It had been in the Book, part of his plan for the game: eat lunch during the break between the first and second half. He had even known what he would eat. But he hadn't expected to meet someone even more enthralled with the team and the game than he is, and he hadn't even thought about the fact that he hadn't eaten lunch until after he had arrived back at the castle. He tried to make up for it by eating twice as much as usual at dinner, but he had only managed to choke down about half of the second portion before admitting defeat and giving the rest to Vincent, who deserved it after what he had put him through.

Don't skip meals anymore. Don't watch the news anymore. Two promises, both broken in a single week, and CC will be back in less than two days.

What would she think of this? he wonders, looking down at the paper in his hand again. Scrawled on the paper, in a surprisingly messy hand, are a string of numbers (a Frankfurt phone number), an email address, and the name Birgit Ehrlichmann. He looks away again. Would CC be happy that he stepped outside of the castle for an afternoon, or would she just remind him of the potential for danger?

The flames flicker before him as he contemplates how little, and how much, can change in a day. This morning he had been nervous; this afternoon, at the game, euphoric; now he is disheartened, brought low after the high of the game and by the realization what losing himself in temporary elation will cost. He has no idea, now, what he was thinking. Birgit may not have seen anyone but Alexander in him today, but he knows it's foolish to expect that to persist. He knows better than to let anyone other than CC in for longer than it takes to send a package, or buy tickets to a movie, or watch a football game.

He lifts his hand off of Vincent and pushes the screen in front of the fire aside. Vincent stirs and lifts his head. His eyes glint as they catch the flames, and he drops his hand back to Vincent's head. Vincent snuffles against his hand and drops his head back to the carpet with a contented grunt. He doesn't even remember that I was late, he thinks. Everything is right in Vincent's world again.

He looks back down at the paper in his hand.

Birgit won't remember him after long either, he tells himself. In her world, an afternoon spent with a stranger at a football game is time spent with one more person she's met. Her life is filled with other people, from her family and friends to brief encounters that sometimes lead to more but more often end then. Her memories of him will be superseded by memories of people she has yet to meet, and if she remembers him at all it'll just be because he prevented her from falling to the stadium floor and kissed her during the high brought on by the win. She'll be fine, and he'll never have to worry about getting lost in friendship with her and forgetting about his dog, and his schedule, and the Book, and promises to CC.

He'll never have to worry about her recognizing him because he'll never see her again.

He looks back at the now unscreened fire. "I'm sorry, Birgit," he whispers, and throws the paper on the flames.

**o**

It's 7:50 pm, and he's putting the finishing touches on the cake he's icing for CC's return when Vincent's ears suddenly perk up. "What is it, boy?" he asks absently, piping little pepperoni on the icing pizza he's piped on the cake. He's pleased to see that they're all uniform, proving again that practice does make perfect. CC used to complain about the cakes until he started participating in eating them. After that she approved wholeheartedly.

Vincent whines and gets to his feet.

"No icing," he says sternly. "The last time you got into the icing I had to clean up technicolor vomit."

"Hello, Alexander," CC says from the doorway.

He jumps and almost puts his hand on the cake. "Sofie!" he gasps, surprised, and she smiles her pizza smile. Vincent gives a happy bark and prances over to her, tail going so fast it looks like a blur, and she drops to her knees and gives him a hug.

"You're early," he observes, finally, and glances at his watch to make sure.

She looks up at him, her eyes warm. "Only by ten minutes," she says.

"Nine."

She just shakes her head. "You're making another cake?"

"It's for you," he says, motioning her over. "Come look."

She straightens, steps around Vincent, who follows her with his tongue lolling happily, and comes to his side. "It's made to look like a pizza," she says, surprised.

"I didn't make you dinner," he says, carefully setting down the piping tube. "I didn't depend on you to be here for that. But I figured I could make you a cake. They keep longer."

"Alexander," she breathes, and then she's in his arms, face buried against his shoulder, his hands pressing her hair against her back as he hugs her tightly. Vincent bumps up against their legs, pressing his warm flank to both of them, and for the first time since she's left he feels like it might be all right again. She's back, and with her here his life can fall back into place.

They stay like that for a heartbeat, and then he gently lets go of her. "One more pepperoni and it's done," he tells her, picking up the piping tube again. She looks like she wants to say something but contents herself with stepping back and rolling her eyes. He sets back to work.

When he finishes, he looks back at her, and she reaches up to touch his cheek. His lips tingle, and for a moment he sees a slip of paper, curling black as flames slowly obliterate it. Then her other hand lifts, and he sees CC again, amber eyes somber as she cups his face between her hands. "Alexander," she whispers, and takes a deep breath.

"What is it?" he asks her.

She steps back and takes a deep breath. "There's someone here to see you."


End file.
